


Truth or Dare; Slap or Kiss

by postjentacular



Series: Tumblr prompts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (slight) Panic Attack, Claustrophobia, Drinking Games, F/M, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, One Shot, Truth or Dare, Tumblr Prompt, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which the eighth years have a Valentine's Day party.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I missed not one, but two deadlines for [Dralentine's Day 2017](http://dralentines-day.tumblr.com/post/155981103612/dralentines-day-masterpost-2k17) but liked the prompt that much I ran with it anyway. Additional prompt on the subject of [slapping and kissing](http://themalfoymanner.tumblr.com/post/129535042075/andasr-powai-spin-the-bottle-except-instead) is also from the wonderfully weird world of tumblr.

“So?” Hermione asked as Ron flopped down next to her on the sofa. Around them the low-level chatter of the eighth year common room didn’t wane.

“He just hissed at me,” Ron said defeatedly. She quirked her eyebrow questioningly at him, “I don’t think he really knows he’s doing it,” he offered apologetically.

Hermione shook her head fiercely, “Oh yes he does,” she thumped him harsher than he’d expected with the cushion she’d been hugging as she stood up, “you are not that naïve, Ronald. He’s just being a git and you,” she bashed him again with the cushion, “let him get away with it.” She dropped the cushion on Ron’s lap and stalked across the room.

“Harry,” she announced herself to the top of his head. He didn’t look up from his book. “Harry,” she said again with a little more force. He still didn’t look up but gave a short, sharp _hsss_. Without hesitation she slapped the book from his hands and it skittered across the floor. He looked up at her, his lips pursed in a tight thin line and she glared at back at him with just as much anger. “You’re being a git,” she said, “again.”

“You threw my book across the floor,” Harry said, quietly, carefully. Hermione’s arched eyebrow asked what his point was. “You, the patron saint of libraries, just willfully threw a book across the floor.”

“One:” she counted off on her fingers, “that’s Saint Jerome, not me. Two: you can’t just hiss at people until they leave you alone and, three: acting like a complete berk still won’t get you out of this.”

“It’s not hissing,” Harry muttered under his breath a little contritely, “it’s parseltongue.”

“It’s obnoxious,” Hermione corrected, squishing into the chair next to him.

“I don’t want to go,” Harry said as plainly as he could as he silently _accio_ ed his book back.

“Tough luck, everyone’s going.”

“‘Mione, it’s a Valentine’s party, single people don’t go to Valentine’s Day parties.”

“What part of everyone is going did you have difficulty understanding, Harry? Everyone. Is. Going,” she enounced each word as if talking to a quarrelsome toddler. “No excuses.”

“Everyone?” Harry questioned. “Malfoy doesn’t have to go.” A few feet away the blond’s head jerked to attention at the sound of his name.

Hermione nodded, “Yes, Draco has to go.”

“Yes, Draco has to go,” Malfoy agreed sarcastically, with as much enthusiasm as Harry had.

“See,” Hermione said, “even Draco’s coming. It’ll be fun.”

#

_It’ll be fun, Hermione said,_ Harry thought as he punched the heart-shaped balloons out of his way. He wasn’t sure exactly how many ways she was wrong, but he’d counted fifteen already and had only taken three steps into the common room.

The usual cosy, muted colours of the comfortable eighth year sanctuary had been transformed into a plethora of pinks running the spectrum from champagne through to magenta stopping off at rose, coral and what had to be at least a thousand more shades which Harry didn’t stand a chance of naming. Their sprawling sofas had been transfigured into loveseats which would hold just two apiece if they squeezed and trays full of heart-shaped everything floated unobtrusively around the room. Heart-shaped pumpkin pasties shared plates with Cupid's arrow sugar quills and even the cauldron cakes had got in on the act with an amortentia sheen. Someone had managed to charm a muggle photobooth to print strips of wizarding photos which stuck themselves to the walls, their subjects seemingly unperturbed at being caught with someone else’s tongue in their mouths. Balloons and streamers tangled around Harry’s feet with every step he took as he looked around – desperately – for a drinks table.

 _They got a bloody photobooth in here,_ he thought, _someone must’ve been able to get some alcohol_. From across the common room Harry heard Seamus’ lilt and if he’d learned anything from eight years at Hogwarts it was where there was Seamus there was Ogden’s. Harry was not disappointed.

Ignoring pre-poured tumblers of firewhisky, butterbeer, elf wine and some golden, glittery concoction he didn't want to think about, Harry snagged a full bottle of Ogden’s cheapest from the crate under the table while Seamus – the self-appointed bartender – was distracted and took himself to the quietest corner of the room. Settling on the floor, Harry leaned back against the wall, wriggled the cork out of the top of the bottle and took a swig. It tasted of burning kerosine and he had no doubt it could strip paint from walls or dissolve flesh should the need arise, but it was strong and he took a second, just as long, swig.

“It tastes like doxy piss,” Malfoy drawled as he slid down the wall and sat himself next to Harry. “You sharing?”

Harry looked between his new companion and the bottle in his hand, then handed it over without a word. Malfoy took a long gulp of whisky, “Didn't need those taste buds anyway,” he said with a grimace, then set down the bottle between them.

They sat in not-quite comfortable silence, each actively pretending the other wasn't there and alternating swigs straight from the bottle while the party rose and fell around them. Riotous dancing on tables gave way to conversations and disappearing couples – some lacking enough discretion that even Harry noticed them taking their leave. Harry and Malfoy continued to sit in silence.

“You've been summoned, mate,” Ron said, appearing in front of them, interrupting their peace and quiet.

Malfoy took that as his cue to leave, “Thanks for the chat,” he said without an ounce of sarcasm. At Ron's confused and slightly angry glare, he added, “Most scintillating.”

“Any time, Malfoy,” Harry nodded cordially.

“You’ve been summoned too,” Ron said as Malfoy rose to move away.

“Malfoys aren't summoned,” he said using his haughtiest voice which once meant it was something his father was going to hear about.

“Take it up with ‘Mione and Parkinson,” he said, “I'm just the messenger.”

“There's a reason,” Malfoy muttered under his breath as he went find his wretched cow of a best friend, “messengers got shot.”

‘Whatever,” Ron brushed off the poorly veiled threat. “Come on,” he offered his hand to Harry. Harry stared at the proffered hand, not making a move to accept it. “I can't go back empty handed.” Harry cocked his head to indicate there was a perfectly functional empty seat and half full bottle of whisky right there. “Mate,” Ron gave an apologetic shake of his head.

“Fine,” Harry relented, pulling himself to his feet and reluctantly following Ron back to the crowd gathering around Hermione who was holding court. She directed the pair of them to the empty space between Daphne and Dean to complete the circle; as Harry sat Draco caught his eye and almost imperceptibly raised his recently-filled glass in commiseration.

“Okay,” Hermione gave three short, sharp claps to get everyone's attention; once a hush fell over the circle, she continued, “Seamus, if you would be so kind?” Seamus took the last gulp of whisky straight from the bottle, stuffed the cork back in the top and passed it to her. “Now,” she continued, “there’s no _Veritaserum_ or compulsion to tell the truth, just your honour,” she cast a particularly fixed glare at the Slytherins in the circle. “You spin the bottle like this,” she flicked her wrist and the bottle span, slowing to a stop in front of Blaise, “and whoever it lands on will give you your truth or dare.”

“We can ask anything?” Blaise asked with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows.

“Within reason,” she said, “it's supposed to be a bit of fun. If you wouldn't want to answer it, then you probably shouldn't ask it.” The circle nodded and murmured in agreement; an unspoken moratorium on talking about the past year. “Now for the twist, if you refuse or the circle feels you haven’t fulfilled your part either through lying or failing the dare then we move onto Slap or Kiss.”

“Granger,” Malfoy interrupted, “why must there be so many rules?”

“Rules make it fun, Draco. Now, ‘Slap or Kiss,’” Hermione continued without hesitation, “you leave the circle and everyone else gets to vote on whether you will get slapped or kissed. Majority wins and the person doing the slapping or kissing doesn’t get a vote. You then come back and we sit back to watch the fireworks. Everyone clear?” Another round of nodding and murmurs confirmed they were ready to play. “I guess I'll go first then,” Hermione said reaching for the bottle.

“‘Mione,” Harry spoke up, “you already spun. It landed on Zabini.” Blaise’s face lit up with what could only be described as glee.

Hermione made to argue, but thought better and caught herself before she started. “Okay, Blaise, truth please.”

He didn't pause for thought, “Have you shagged Weasley yet?”

“That's none of your–” she stopped herself and took a sip of her butterbeer. Harry risked a glance at her and could almost hear her brain over-thinking itself out. He took a sip from his own bottle and readied himself to call her out: _silencio_ s and _muffliato_ s only go so far in a tent, magical or not. “Yes,” she said in an almost whisper as Ron turned a shade of red that left the circle in no doubt to her truthfulness.

Blaise took his turn next and the game swiftly got underway; Seamus’ puckered lips quavered after the kiss he was expecting from Dean turned out to be a slap and to Ron’s horror his refusal to run a circuit of the courtyard stark bollock naked earned him a full on snog from Pansy – whether Hermione was more delighted by the look of horror on Ron’s face as Pansy slipped her tongue in or when Ron found out she’d voted ‘kiss’, was anyone’s guess. Daphne, it turned out, had lost her virginity at fifteen to an unnamed seventh-year Ravenclaw, Draco had a parseltongue kink and Neville surprised everyone by downing a pint in just seven seconds.

“Dare,” Harry said, with as little enthusiasm as he’d had the rest of the evening, before his spin of the bottle had even stopped. He didn’t even look up from where he was slowly picking the label from his bottle of Ogden’s with his pinkie nail to see who was going to dare him.

“I dare you,” Draco said after some deliberation, “to kiss the most attractive person in the room.”

Harry, at last, looked up, “No.”

An anticipatory _‘oooh’_ shot round the circle preceding a rhythmic chant of _‘Slap or Kiss, Slap or Kiss.’_ “You know the drill, Harry,” Hermione said pointing to the small storage cupboard they’d designated as the safe space for the victim while their fate was decided. Harry dragged himself to his feet and wearily shut himself and his bottle in the spider-ridden cupboard.

#

“Can I come out yet?” Harry shouted through the closed door. He’d been there, folded up in the tiny space long enough for his legs to cramp, which – as far as he was concerned – was more than long enough for them to decide on Malfoy slapping him. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _they’re debating exactly how many slaps he was to get_.

He felt the thump of somebody leaning against the other side of the door before he heard anyone speak. “Not yet,” Malfoy drawled through the wooden door, “they’ve reached a stalemate.” Harry lolled his head back hitting the door slightly harder than he was expecting; he rubbed at the sore spot which was certainly going to bruise.

Inside the cupboard, time slowed to glacial speeds and as the walls inched ever closer, the temperature rose sucking out all the oxygen Harry had been relying on to breathe. “Malfoy?” Harry asked, his breath hitching as he tried to catch his breath.

“Yes, Potter?” Malfoy drawled.

“There’s something wrong with the cupboard; it’s–” he panted, sucking in enough dusty air to breathe, “–it’s getting smaller.”

“It’s a perfectly normal cupboard, Potter.”

Harry noisily sucked in another two breaths, “Do me a favour, Malfoy?”

“Shut up?” Malfoy asked.

“No, keep talking.”

“Potter,” Malfoy asked a little warily, “are you claustrophobic?”

“No,” Harry snapped back, shorter than he meant, “I spent ten years of my life living in a cupboard, I’m pretty certain I’d know if I were claustrophobic.” His breath caught on the last word.

“Merlin and Morgana,” Draco muttered to himself. “Potter?” he didn’t wait for a reply, “I’m coming in.” There was a shuffling from the cupboard which Draco took as Harry moving away from the door; he reached up and opened the door just wide enough to allow him to slip in. The sliver of warm light from the common room which flooded through the opening lit up the figure cowering between a stack of buckets and a nearly bristleless broom. As he closed the door behind himself, Draco cast a _lumos_ which bathed the small cupboard in a gentle light. He hunkered down across from Harry, legs folded under himself as uncomfortably as Harry’s were. “So…” Draco said, simply for something to say.

“So…” Harry replied after a few moments, “this is…”

“Cosy,” Draco supplied, folding and unfolding his long lean legs this way and that to get a bit more comfortable.

Harry looked up, the ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, “I was going to say ‘weird.’”

“‘Weird’ works too,” Draco agreed. A few more minutes of their not-quite comfortable silence passed before Draco spoke again, “So this is what you’d rather be doing than kissing the most attractive person in the room?”

“Apparently so.”

#

The stalemate was eventually broken with a cut-throat, best-of-seven game of rock-paper-scissors and an agreement that all future Truth or Dare, Slap or Kiss games would only ever have an odd number of players. It would take a week or two for the insults hurled across the circle to be forgiven and forgotten, but before then the game had to be wrapped up and so Ron was _volunteered_ to bring back the missing pair. His shouts fell on deaf ears which meant he had to fetch Harry and Malfoy the old-fashioned way by walking the dozen or so steps across the common room and opening the cupboard door, which greeted him with a particularly violent sounding _hsss_.

“Aww fuck,” Ron cursed as he slammed the cupboard door closed again, “the git did his bloody dare.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer** : If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
